


Solitary

by sfmpco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-16 22:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11262213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfmpco/pseuds/sfmpco
Summary: This is a time gap filler from the point of Sherlock shooting Magnussen to meeting John & Mary at the plane before taking off for his six-month mission from which he was not expected to survive.  This focuses on Sherlock's POV.  Told in a few chapters, so please bookmark.  As always, your comments are appreciated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a time gap filler from the point of Sherlock shooting Magnussen to meeting John & Mary at the plane before taking off for his six-month mission from which he was not expected to survive. This focuses on Sherlock's POV. Told in a few chapters, so please bookmark. As always, your comments are appreciated.

Outplayed and outsmarted, Sherlock Holmes had chosen to put a bullet into the head of his adversary, Charles Augustus Magnussen. Although there was no regret in his actions to do so, the shock of what he had done was taking over, and he felt numb and frightened at the same time.  

He hadn’t considered all the ramifications and consequences of taking the life of another human in cold blood, and that part he did instantly regret.  _Mycroft, please help your little brother.  Please.  I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do._ He was in over his head in trouble, and for once he actually wanted assistance from his older and often wiser sibling.

The helicopter blades whipped up a furious whirlwind being so close the ground, and the noise was deafening.  Its light bore down on him, like judgment from Heaven, burning and searing into his soul.  He was a condemned man, and there was no escape from the pit of damnation he’d recklessly hurled himself into.

 _Please, brother!_ If he had ever hoped that Mycroft could read his mind, this was the one time.  He felt small and helpless, the little boy who had many times looked to his older sibling when life’s problems had been overwhelming and frightening.  Mycroft had always been his safety net whether he wanted him there or not, but now he couldn’t see him.  Mycroft was simply the helicopter and the voice over the speaker that shouted, “Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!”  Even so, he was expecting some trigger-happy soldier to accidentally let loose.  He knew his life was in the balance at the end of several automatic weapons, and he began to mentally prepare to die, which was not the first time in his life he had entertained that conundrum, but the weight of his decision was a sudden heavy mantle on his shoulders.  As it was, he recognized that the moment he murdered Magnussen, his own internal decay had begun.  He was as good as dead now.  It was only a matter of time.

Instantly the weightier matters of his rash decision exploded like a starburst in his heart and mind.  His parents would be disappointed, proving what he assumed they felt about him all along.  Certainly he had let Mycroft down.  He knew by John’s reaction that even he was horrified.  And would Mary have approved of the choice he made to save her life?   She was a former assassin.  Surely she would understand, at least that’s what he hoped.  Mrs. Hudson would be furious…no Molly would be furious and then heart-broken because he knew she still carried a torch for him and he had just permanently extinguished that hope.  Mrs. Hudson would simply shake her head and sigh, and she’d eventually find a new tenant.  Lestrade would be dumbfounded and then angry and would likely give Sherlock a harsh Scotland Yard dressing down, not that he didn’t deserve it.  He had crossed a line that he could not uncross.  Maybe he was a psychopath after all.  He had managed, in once impulsive moment, to completely destroy the relationships in his life.  Likely he would never see some of them again, and that hurt. _Help me, brother!_

What’s more, all his life’s work in deduction would now count for nothing.  He had ruined his own career with the squeeze of a trigger, and for what?  To be a martyr for his friends?  His heart was racing.  How had he allowed his emotions to overcome his staunch rationality?  Why had he bothered to get involved with Lady Smallwood’s request?  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He had only agreed to help her because she was one of Mycroft’s colleagues, but he could have turned her down.  He should have turned her down.  He had often said to John when he wasn’t interested in a case, “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” but Sherlock had taken on the Magnussen circus, and the monkeys had been deadly.

In those sobering few moments he began to realize his morphine was wearing off.  He would justify his morphine use due to continuing pain from being shot, but the truth was that his long convalescence had only served to reinforce his morphine addiction. Billy hadn’t just come to his parents’ home that day to drug his parents, Mycroft and Mary but to keep Sherlock in balance with morphine.  Sherlock could hide being high very well.  He was a master at deflection, laying the groundwork of distraction long before it was walked on, even from Mycroft, but he wasn’t so high that his brain wasn’t functioning.  He knew if he stayed quietly in the chair in the kitchen and read the newspaper while allowing his mother to fuss over him just getting out of hospital that no one would be suspicious.  However, he had had drugs in his system when he and John boarded the CAM helicopter to go to Appledore.    

He had not gone to Appledore with the intention of killing Magnussen, despite asking John to bring his gun.  The gun had merely been for protection and perhaps persuasion.

Sherlock Holmes had surprised himself by taking such a lethal action, although he knew he would go to any length to protect the lives of John and Mary Watson, but he hadn’t really thought he would go down the path of murder.  Not really.  It had only been a theory in his head.

The helicopter set down on the lawns of Appledore, and Sherlock and John had orders barked at them by the MI5 soldiers on the ground to lay down and put their hands behind their backs, and both men complied immediately.  They were handcuffed and searched although none too gently, and Sherlock kept his face turned away from John.  Mycroft didn’t approach.  He never left the helicopter but just watched.

With his cheek pressed against the cold paving stone, Sherlock could see Magnussen’s lifeless form only a few feet away.  Blood from the fatal head wound was traveling slowly down the seam between the stones towards Sherlock.  It ran dark red in the light from the helicopter, and he could feel himself panic at the thought of it reaching him, touching him, accusing him, judging him.  Why wasn’t it coagulating faster in the open air? 

Pain was setting in, not so much from his healed bullet wound but from needing another fix.  He hadn’t brought anything on him, afraid that Magnussen would use that against him, and he wanted to be as “clean” as possible when facing such an adversary.  Retreating into his mind palace would help for a short term, but whatever lay ahead would likely be ugly, and he could only escape to his mind palace for so long before the overwhelming symptoms of withdrawal sobered his reality.

Magnussen’s blood stopped inches from him, and he gasped with relief, and he closed his eyes and sighed deeply.  Despite the noise of the helicopter, the militia around him shouting orders, the sounds of sirens coming up the long driveway, Sherlock began to filter it to silence, until he was pulled up roughly by his arms by three MI5 agents.  He was led to a waiting van, John to another.  They never said another word to each other.  Their lives were likely over, and Sherlock realized that perhaps he had somehow also ruined their friendship.  He didn’t know if he would ever see John again, and even if he did, it would not be for a long time.  As the heavy steel doors shut him into the tiny prison cell, he finally allowed himself a few tears.  They were not tears for Magnussen, just as he hadn’t ever shed tears for those lives he’d had to snuff out when taking down Moriarty’s network.  He’d performed a job for his country, and that’s how he felt about Magnussen, even though it had become a personal vendetta. He wasn’t certain he would ever regret that, but he had made choice that had effectively ruined his own life, and he felt neither a hero nor a martyr. He felt rage at himself for being so careless with his emotions.

He knew he’d be in prison for probably the maximum of 25 years.  There would be a high profile court case, he’d be drawn through the mud, publicly vilified, convicted like anyone else in the Commonwealth and then begin his long prison stay among many prisoners who hated him more than he had ever hated Magnussen.  He might survive for a while, but eventually someone would murder him there.  He wondered how many days of life he had left, not that he felt he was living anymore. 

He had always worked with Scotland Yard before, but he had excluded Lestrade from this case.  It became very clear to him that he was obviously out of his depth when he was on his own playing vigilante. 

He suddenly wished for the comfort of human touch, which was quite rare for him.  There was no point in anyone telling him that everything would be alright, because he was descending into hell by his own actions and choices, and there was nothing anyone could say that could comfort him about that.  Still, he wished for a moment to lean his head on someone’s shoulders, to feel the warmth of arms around him.

He suddenly vomited.  He tried to aim for the floor but wasn’t fast enough and soiled himself.  Putrid, wretched, vile, decaying human being.  _Murderer._


	2. Chapter 2

He didn’t vomit once but three times until he had nothing left but dry heaves.  He couldn’t wipe his mouth because he was handcuffed to the bench seat in the back of the armored MI5 van, but he could turn his head and rub his chin and some of his mouth on his shirt collar and coat.  His stomach cramped and he let out a little groan of discomfort as he gritted through it.  He supposed if he was having a heart attack the guard opposite him might have offered assistance, but vomit was of no concern.

Even if he didn’t consciously feel particularly remorseful about murdering Magnussen, his subconscious was betraying him through his body.  _Thou shalt not murder.  Thou shalt not murder._ His Church of England training from an all boys boarding school came back to taunt him.  Not that he was a religious man.  Quite the opposite.  Still, the ingrained training was there and it accused him.  Certainly he agreed that the 10 Commandments were generally a good set of rules to live by although he now suspected he’d definitely broken all of them in some way, so what was the point?   If there was a hell, which he didn’t believe in, there was no escaping it now, but he was at least grateful that Britain no longer had the death penalty having abolished the use of guillotine in the early 20th century and its last hanging  in 1964.  There was some comfort in that, but not much.

Had he ruined John and Mary’s lives too?  He regretted including John in his visit to Appledore because now John would be counted as an accomplice to the crime and would likely serve a long sentence.  He didn’t think of that when he pulled the trigger.  He had just thought he would permanently end a very bad man, but he had just sentenced Mary to the life a single mother. No, he hadn’t saved or protected them.  He had ruined them, and that was the last thing he had ever wanted to do.  He had vowed at their wedding to always be there for them, but he didn’t know then what lengths of depravity he would succumb to in order to fulfill that.

None of his crime had been well thought out, and he understood the criminal mind the most at that moment.  Criminals were careless, always leaving some sort of clue because of the degeneracy and adrenaline that had taken over their minds when in the midst of a crime, especially a heinous crime like murder.  Always they missed something in their planning, and his problem was that he hadn’t really had a plan or at least not a good one.  He could admit to himself that murder was wrong even if he hadn’t come to terms with Magnussen’s death, but he understood murder the most clearly then, and while most of it was repugnant, some was less so, and he put Magnussen’s in the latter category.

He knew that he and John were taken in separate vans because they would be interrogated thoroughly and would not have time to align their stories.  He would exonerate John of all knowledge of the murder, of course, but that likely wouldn’t be enough.  He didn’t know, however, if John would exonerate himself or try to take some of the blame.  John was just stupidly loyal enough to do something like that, and his gun had been the murder weapon.  There was circumstantial complicity.

He closed his eyes and tried to calm his heart and aching gut.  He knew there would be no sleep for hours.  He’d be grilled by the police and he already decided to plead guilty.  There was no denying it.  He’d tell them anything they wanted to know if it made the process go faster.  He didn’t know how long he could hold out in his withdrawal symptoms.  Soon they would be unmistakable and he’d have to add that to the list of failures of the day. 

Tinned Christmas music startled him made him gasp and open his eyes as the guard opposite him scrambled for his phone,   Sherlock had actually forgotten that it was still Christmas day, or what was left of it.  It didn’t feel at all like Christmas.  Even Appledore had been strangely void of all the trappings.  

“Sorry.” The guard muttered as he stuffed his phone back into his pocket.

Sherlock didn’t speak at all to him.  There was nothing to say nor was there anything he wanted to say, not even small talk. He could feel every bump in the road in his joints as the toxins in his body began the havoc.  It wasn’t too bad yet but soon would be unbearable.

He became aware in time, however, by the sound of traffic, that they were not heading to the Metropolitan Police, and he surmised that he was being taken to MI5.  _Yes, of course._ Mycroft wanted to have a go at him before he was handed over to the proper authorities.  It was all becoming very clear now, sort of.  He was a former agent.  John would be taken to Scotland Yard, but Sherlock would undergo the intense interrogation by MI5 who could put the fear of God into the most hardened criminal, and that’s what he had become.  His heart felt dead and stone cold.  All the world and life he had ever known was dying to him and he with it.

When the van finally came to a stop and the engines were cut, Sherlock felt his heart beat quicken again.  He supposed it was possible that they could just have him shot.   Rogue agents or double agents often had their lives ended by an internal sniper.  That was the way it worked: MI5 privately dealt their own hand of justice to their own, but he was consoled with the fact that wasn’t in the ranks anymore, and that the murder had been of a private citizen.  In fact, part of him felt as though the country owed him a huge debt of gratitude.  Likely Magnussen had held a devastating caché of secrets on half of the government, and certainly the royal family would not have been immune to his tactics.  In fact, he should be knighted for his service.

He could hear muffled conversation outside the van, but he didn’t recognize Mycroft’s voice.  And then suddenly the back doors opened and he squinted in the light from the underground garage.  Yes, definitely MI5 headquarters.  He was unclipped from the bench seat, and his hands were handcuffed behind his back again.  He groaned as he stepped out of the van, an armed guard securely holding each arm.

“If I don’t visit the loo, and I shall wet myself.” He insisted to the guards.

“Perfect.  I’ll need a urine sample.” A voice from his left spoke.  It was male doctor, part of the MI5 staff.  “Mr. Holmes.”

Dr. Bilson had treated Sherlock’s injuries upon his return from Serbia which included the wounds on his back and two cracked ribs from the brutal beating he’d received at the end.

“This way please.” Bilson said, and he led the way into the building.

Urine was taken and blood was drawn but not by Bilson.  He left those details in the hands of lab technicians.  Blood pressure was measured and it was slightly elevated which was to be expected under the circumstance, but the worst was yet to come. 

He had been cavity-searched once before after his capture in Serbia, and that had been rough enough, almost rape, but MI5 seemed to take extra time with him.  Either that or time had slowed to a crawl.  He knew, however, that if he exhibited any frustration that they would only prolong the agonizing procedure even further.  And all the time he knew he was being watched, and he wondered if Mycroft was one of the watchers.  He looked up at the small CCTV camera in upper corner as he grimaced through a cavity search.  They were definitely not gentle with him, and he convinced himself that they were enjoying it because it was him and that they wanted to antagonize him and bring him down.  The great, irritating, clever Sherlock Holmes had fallen from his pedestal, and he was certain they were reveling in it.  He screamed obscenities at them in his mind and was close to losing all control when it was suddenly over, but the procedure left him trembling afterwards, and he couldn’t make that stop, and there were tears in his eyes.  He felt completely humiliated, even though he knew it was protocol for processing criminal agents.  Perhaps, however, he had been trembling before from morphine withdrawal.  He wasn’t certain anymore.  There was a snap of rubber gloves being removed and then the sound of them being tossed in the bin.

“I assume you found your way to China.  It certainly felt like it.” He snapped.

“Just doing my job, sir.  You can get dressed now.  Clothes are on the chair.”  The technician said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered a little as he repeated the examiner’s words under his breath.  He was agitated and in desperate for a fix but knew that none would be forthcoming.   Still, the technician had referred to him as Sir, so there was so element of respect left to who he was...or used to be.

The clothes were drab grey prison clothes almost like surgical scrubs.  The white cotton underwear was a brand he never purchased, probably the least expensive brand made from some sweatshop in India.  The fabric in the cotton clothing was like  180-thread count bed sheets, and it immediately felt rough on his skin.  Certainly it was not what he was used to.

He was led handcuffed to Bilson’s small office where he was handcuffed to the chair, and remarkably, he was left alone for a bit, not that he could have gone anywhere.  His chair was bolted to the floor.  The clothing was beginning to itch, and he squirmed a bit.  The shock and adrenaline of committing murder were wearing off, and he was now fighting extreme exhaustion.   He knew he might still face hours of interrogation before he was allowed to sleep, and he didn’t know how he would manage it.

The soft click of the door after several minutes meant that he was no longer alone as Bilson entered the room and shut the door behind him.  Even so, Sherlock knew that they were being watched through the CCTV and even the large mirror on one wall that he suspected was 2-way glass.  He wondered if Mycroft was behind the glass.

“I don’t generally keep weapons up my arse.” Sherlock quipped.  “That was unnecessarily rough.”

“Most people do find it an uncomfortable procedure.  Sorry.  But we weren’t looking for weapons, Mr. Holmes.  We were looking for drugs.”

“Find any?”

“No, but you were high earlier, weren’t you?  How long has it been since you’ve had a fix?”

“I don’t know.  What time is it?” Sherlock retorted.

“Nearly 2:00 A.M.” Bilson responded calmly. “I understand you were shot last summer and had quite a long convalescence.  Just got out of rehab at one of our facilities a few days ago”

Sherlock flinched at the word “shot” and wondered just how much Bilson knew.  “Has the interrogation begun?  Because I’d really like it to begin so that I can go to bed.”

“That’s not my department, I’m afraid.  I am just a doctor doing my job.  However, I was given the impression that you might be here for a while, so do you want help to battle your symptoms as you detox?  I can offer methadone, buprenorphine, clonodine or naltrexone or even a combination.  I do suggest you take something as going cold turkey off morphine – it is morphine, isn’t it? - is never a good idea if it can be alleviated.  Even now you want some.  The telltale leg shake and general agitation give you away.”

“Someone told you it was morphine.  My brother.  Where is he, by the way?  Skulking behind mirrors or cameras? Watching me?  Mycroft!   I know you’re there!”  He tugged at his restraints, but he there was no escape, although he did manage an obscene gesture towards the CCTV camera.

“And belligerent.  So do you want help or not?”

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the doctor with a hard glare.  “Not.”


	3. Chapter 3

The solid door to his cell shut behind him.  He presented his cuffed wrists through the small opening in the door, and he was uncuffed, and when he withdrew his hands, the small door shut and he was left in the tomb-like silence of his cell.  _Solitary._   A simple cot-like bed, a toilet, a lavatory, a flat-screen television mounted flush into the wall about six feet overhead, a light above that he did not control, and grey walls that nearly matched his clothing, paint so thick on the cinderblocks that the block had nearly lost any definition.  There was no window, but fresh air circulated in through small vents in the ceiling.  This is what his life had become:  bleak, without color, without interaction.  This was a dungeon compared to the cells in Pentonville or any other prison, and he had no idea how long he would be there or how many hours per day he would be entombed. 

He had been offered something to eat but refused citing his stomach cramps, and breakfast would arrive in a few hours, if he even felt up to that.  And then the light went out, thrusting him into complete darkness which startled him and made him cry out.  He was not a man afraid of the dark, but this darkness was thick.  Logic told him that the darkness was only the absence of light.  If he had been born blind, he’d have not known the difference, but his imagination told him there were unseen things lurking in the darkness.  His imagination was only intensified by his body’s early toxic withdrawal symptoms.

The TV screen came on with a very dim light, like a night light.  That was some consolation, at least, and he felt his body instantly relax.  There was a small toiletry kit for him, and he took a moment to brush his teeth and wash his face, even wetting down his hair.  He wondered when he would be allowed to shower.  In fact, he wondered when he would be allowed to make a call to his solicitor.  He wondered why he hadn’t been interrogated yet, and he wondered why Mycroft hadn’t come to see him or sent him a note.  He was already mulling over the latter, and he hoped it wasn’t because Mycroft found the crime so heinous that he had disowned his younger brother.  In his mind he swore at Mycroft, and he felt cursed to have been born with such a sibling.  What a joke their relationship had ever been.   But it pained Sherlock to think such thoughts.  Even though he knew his body was going through withdrawal and his emotions seemed heightened, he was certain his feelings on the matter were genuine.

The sheets were rough and inexpensive, but they smelled clean and that was some comfort, but as exhausted as he was, he suddenly couldn’t sleep.  He suspected he was being watched and monitored 24/7.  Was he on suicide watch?  He thought perhaps he wasn’t being processed through the courts yet because Mycroft wanted him to detox away from a prison.  There was some mercy in that at least as he felt in no condition to be among a prison population.  He clearly wasn’t being handled like a normal prisoner, however, and if he was receiving “special treatment,” the “special” was a bit on the sarcastic side.

It had been nearly fourteen hours since he’d taken any drugs, and he knew he’d soon be in the deep throes of detoxing, and he began second-guessing is decision not to have medical aid for the process.  His stomach was still cramping, and he curled into a fetal position and grimaced in discomfort.

He considered that only 24 hours before he had been in his own comfortable bed, his own soft Egyptian cotton sheets.  He’d had dream about parking a car in a multi-level car park and then not being able to remember where he parked it.  It was a re-occurring dream,  Always the same car, always a similar car park.  It was one he was certain he’d never been inside in real life, nor could he remember even what type of car he’d driven, but he reasoned the dream occurred during stressful times in his life.  Had he been stressed in imagining his confrontation with Magnussen?  Christmas at his parents’ house was always taxing in its own merits, especially because he knew Mycroft would complain non-stop over the sentimentality of the holiday.  Both he and Sherlock chafed at being shown affection by their parents, although Sherlock less so.  Sherlock actually liked all the trimmings and decorations although he only had seemed to tolerate Mrs. Hudson’s attempts to add some holiday cheer in 221B.  In truth he appreciated her efforts.  Now he didn’t know if he’d ever experience a true Christmas again, and he certainly wasn’t interested in a prison version.

The small door on his cell opened, and he squinted.  The overhead light was on.  He must have fallen asleep for a short bit, but in truth he had no concept of time.

“Breakfast.”

He wasn’t hungry but nauseas, and every joint ached when he sat up.  Nevertheless he got up to take a look.  Eggs, sausage, porridge and toast with coffee and bottled water.  He took the bottled water but refused the rest.  When the tray was removed, a note fell to the floor.  He picked it up and read it.

TAKE THE METHEDONE.  MH

MH. Molly Hooper. No, not Molly.  Brain fog.  She likely wasn’t even aware of his true absence although he had texted her that he’d be spending Christmas with his family.   MH for Mycroft Holmes. 

He was certain that by now MI5 had gone through his cell phone in effort to find any incriminating evidence.  They knew all his contacts and how often he contacted them.  They would get his phone records.  They would find the texts he had sent to Magnussen.  They would get into his emails, his Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and various other social outlets that he used.  They would uncover far more about his private life than he cared to have exposed.  Too much of his life was on that cell phone.  They would even discover that he was nearly unbeatable at Scrabble.  They’d likely requisition the necessary warrants to retrieve his main laptop although he doubted they’d get past his encryption.   Still they had IT people who could get into anything.  They would find out that Irene Adler was still alive, although he suspected Mycroft had always known that, and he even suspected that Mycroft knew there were occasional communications from her, even if Sherlock rarely responded.  She had a new identity and was out of harm’s way if she kept up the ruse.

He looked up at the monitor which had gone dark.  On the top rim was a tiny hole for camera that was obviously watching him.  He faced it directly, ripped the note in several small pieces and then flushed them down the toilet.  He made an obscene gesture at the camera before collapsing back onto the bed, pulling up the covers and turning away from the camera.

He shivered and curled into a fetal position, and he pulled his blankets even more tightly around him.  The intense withdrawal symptoms had begun.


	4. Chapter 4

It was not the first time Sherlock had gone through withdrawals.  Although he would fiercely deny that he was an addict but just an occasional user to heighten his senses, sometimes the using got out of his control.  It was not unusual for someone with a severe injury to be on morphine for extended periods, thus compelling an addiction, and Sherlock’s long convalescence after being shot had seen him unable to wean himself from the morphine he had been prescribed for pain.

Normally his drug use was more varied, and in case he was afraid of overdosing, he always kept a list of the exact amounts he’d taken, something which Mycroft had asked him to promise to do many years before during one of the times he had helped Sherlock through a near overdose.  Mycroft could sometimes be catty about Sherlock’s forays into illegal drugs, but he was always remarkably and uncharacteristically non-judgmental and tender when Sherlock was in the deep throes and in recovery. He had tirelessly cared for Sherlock sometimes for days, and it was something that both kept from their parents.  This was the first time in many years that Sherlock was going through it without his older brother, but at the moment he would have scorned Mycroft’s help.  His soul felt lost, hopeless, and falling into a fathomless abyss.

For now his aches and chills felt like the onset of a very bad case of flu mixed with intense cravings for morphine.

His condition did not go unnoticed, because as he had assumed, he was being monitored 24/7, and when he refused his next two meals as well as an hour of “freedom” in the small lounge down the hall, Dr. Bilson paid him a visit.

“I won’t force you to take medication for your symptoms, Mr. Holmes, but I will tell you that if you are planning a hunger strike, that will not be tolerated.” Bilson said firmly as he towered over Sherlock.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, his arms crossed over his chest, as he hugged himself tightly and rocked slightly.  His blankets were around his shoulders but he was still shivering uncontrollably.  “I don’t suppose you could requisition a couple more blankets.  I’m bloody freezing.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Bilson said.

“And why hasn’t my brother come to see me?  Has he disowned me?  Does he hate me?”

“Who is your brother?” he asked.  He genuinely didn’t know.

“Mycroft Holmes.  Member of the Cabinet.  Controls the government although he’d never admit it.”  He looked up at the monitor.  “Would you, Mycroft?  Are you enjoying this?  Like you enjoyed watching me get beat to a pulp in Serbia?  I did you a favor!  I did this whole country and most of world a favor!  I saved all of you!” He immediately groaned after his outburst and doubled over with a little whine of pain. On top of the shivering, he was feverish and his heart was racing.

Bilson left and brought him two more blankets as well as a cup of chicken bouillon and some water biscuits.  “I want to see you drink all that broth, and these might help settle your stomach a bit.”

Sherlock took the bouillon  cup and sipped it, and the hot broth made him made him shiver worse for a moment before it began to warm him internally, but he did get it down after which he remarked, “Too salty.”

“Well if you keep it down, we’ll add some mirepoix and maybe a little chicken next time.”

Sherlock unwrapped a packet of water biscuits with shaking hands.  “I have an estimated I.Q. of 190.  Did you know that?  My brother’s is higher.  Always lauding it over me like I’m some sort of moron.  Can I have a cup of tea?  Your daughter didn’t like her Christmas pressie.  Ballet lessons, really?  She wanted a pony.”  When Bilson’s jaw dropped slightly at the accurate revelation, Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged.  “I’m psychic.”

Bilson checked his watch.  “Do you want anything to read before I go?  A book?  Magazine?”

“A cup of tea.” Sherlock reiterated more firmly.  “Mrs. Hudson always brought my tea. It can’t be that difficult.”

When Bilson returned a few minutes later, however, Sherlock was curled up under the mountain of blankets, and he had fallen asleep.

He awoke a few hours later in the dim light of the room, but he was no longer shivering,  Now he was boiling hot, sweating as if he’d just run the London marathon in impossibly blistering weather.  He threw off all the blankets and examined his sheets.  They were damp with his sweat.  His clothes were damp, and he pulled them off quickly then laid his naked body onto the cooler cement floor.  He suspected the floor was completely unsanitary, but he was desperate for relief, spreading out his arms and legs to get as much surface-to-surface contact as possible.  His heart was pounding furiously giving him a wicked headache.  He crawled to the toilet and vomited dry heaves, then sprawled himself out on the floor again. Within minutes he was shivering again, and he pulled the blankets to the floor and curled up under them.

Hot.  Cold.  Hot.  Cold.  His body had lost the ability to thermo-regulate its heat during his detox, and he could no longer sleep.  His joints ached, his mouth alternated from being cotton dry to excessive drooling, and between the moments when he was neither hot nor cold, his skin felt like it was crawling with biting ants.  Or fleas.  Or roaches.  He was convinced the cell was a cesspool of creeping vermin, and he scratched his legs so hard at one point that he drew blood.

He measured the cell with his feet, then with his hands.  Counting.  Numbers. It was a distraction.  He noticed that the faces of the cement blocks had slightly uneven surfaces although they looked flat. It was as if someone had carved something into the walls, but it had been painted over several times.  Different shapes, different angles, but hard to sequence.  Probably a former inmate.  Counting the days or making some type of primitive cave art. Yet, it was all over the cell.  He had counted the walls three times when he suddenly stopped and caught his breath as he felt his blood run cold.  

SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK

His name was inscribed into the walls as if the cell had been waiting for him.  But this was old, and there was only one person he knew who had done such a thing.  _Moriarty._   He let out a little cry of anguish.  This was the cell that Moriarty had been held in during his brief incarceration around the time of the Baskerville case.  Had Mycroft put him in that cell intentionally in order to mentally torture him? 

He turned to the monitor in horror and shook his head as he hugged himself.   “No.  No.  No.  No.”   Tears spilled out his eyes.  "Get me out of here!  Let me out!  Let me out!" And then he began screaming. 


	5. Chapter 5

_Murderer.  Murderer.  Murderer._   He was no better morally than his arch enemy – at least that’s what the walls were telling him, although Sherlock doubted Moriarty ever soiled his hands with the actual deed.  Moriarty had been more of a conductor who orchestrated others to play his music of mayhem, madness and murder.  Perhaps Moriarty knew that someday, somehow, Sherlock would end up incarcerated, and if he could see Sherlock now, it would be the closest to happiness he had ever felt.

Sherlock had screamed for about fifteen minutes, but in his weakened condition that quickly exhausted him, and his voice had grown hoarse.  He sank onto the side of his bed, his face in his hands, and wept.  He wept like a man who had lost everything because indeed he had, and he felt utterly in despair.  He was not a man who followed any religion and in fact scorned them all as unscientific.  Even so, in his hopelessness he found himself crying out to a nameless something, anything to please help him.

Now more than ever, it began to enter his thoughts that it had all gone terribly wrong and that he had been reckless and impulsive resulting in him committing the greatest offence between two humans:  murder.  He had not come to terms with calling himself a murderer, but now it came to terms with him, tearing and clawing at his soul.  He had ruined countless lives by his actions.

He was sorry.  He was sorry for the ruin he caused although not entirely sorry for ending Magnussen.  He tried to separate the two things but he couldn’t quite.  His conscience told him to be sorry, but his will was at war with his conscience, like two gladiators in the arena.

He had given cursory thought to John and wondered what had happened with him, but he refused to dwell on the matter knowing there was nothing he could do.  Although he had masterminded the plans, John had been a willing participant and would have to pay his own price.  Their friendship was ruined now anyhow.  He wondered if Mary had had her baby since she was within the normal range for being ready to deliver, but his own detoxification took most of his brain power and energy, and he had little left of himself to give attention to much else. 

He regretted that the one true friendship he could remember having, John Watson, was likely over.  While he knew that John had been a kindred spirit since they met, Sherlock knew that he was entirely to blame for all the rifts they’d had while sharing a flat.  John wasn’t bothered by exactness but Sherlock was, even though Janine had referred to 221B as the “scuzz dump.”  Even amidst the clutter, however, Sherlock had a system that worked for him, and he didn’t like his system rearranged.  Ever. 

John had asked Sherlock early on if he had a girlfriend, and Sherlock had swiftly answered no.  No boyfriend either.  Relationship were simply not his area.  He wasn’t good at them, and now he had destroyed his friendship with John by involving John in a murder.   _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Why did he think he could ever have a true friend because he certainly didn’t know how to be one.

He wished he could go back in time and choose a different course, but not too far back.  Of course he wouldn’t have taken Lady Smallwood’s case but he would have done other things differently:  he would not have led Janine into a false relationship.  That was a regret he still harbored, and he rightfully hadn’t heard from her in months.  He also would have tried better to pick up on Mary’s clues.  She had been unwittingly dropping hints that she was more than she appeared, but he had been so overcome that she had genuinely liked him, plus he liked her sass and that she saw through him, that he had let his guard down.  But then he wondered if she would have killed Magnussen if he hadn’t intervened.  On balance, he still preferred that he did the murder rather than her, but it was an awful, black balance, and he knew that eventually he would face a very harsh justice.  The _eventually_ was beginning to eat at him.   He still hadn’t been interrogated and wondered when that would begin.  He wanted to get it over with, move on with the sentence that would be handed down and then begin his new “life,” whatever hell that was.  Being held in limbo was emotionally crippling.

He did something then that he hadn’t done since he was a child:  he cried himself to sleep. 

After four days the most intensive withdrawal side effects began to decrease, and he found himself hungry.  Dr. Bilson diagnosed him with dehydration and had sports drinks sent in for the sugar and electrolytes.  Extra meal portions were also ordered.  At first he couldn’t quite finish a meal but within a day he was on a regular pattern and returned an empty meal tray.  The food wasn’t great, but it wasn’t as terrible as he would have thought, although he thought the tea was atrocious.  Not like Mrs. Hudson’s tea.  Not at all.  It was more like a cheap, stale tea bag from a bargain basement, and the coffee wasn’t much better.

On day five of his incarceration below MI5, he felt the first hint that the dense fog of detoxification was lifting.  He had actually slept soundly, mostly out of exhaustion, but he had slept.  He opened his blood-shot, bleary eyes and took in his surroundings.  He had lost track of time although he knew it wasn’t night because the light was on.  He sat up slowly.  The ache in his joints was greatly lessened, and now he just felt stiff and in need of a good massage, but he had endured the cold turkey, and although his brain still craved morphine, and he would not have refused a fix were if offered to him, his body at least had settle down,

He was brought a few magazines but no newspapers.  The magazines were medical or scientific journals, which he read and absorbed like a dry sponge to water.  He had to occupy his brain which continued to race unabated no matter his circumstance.  He slept for long periods, but he wouldn’t awaken refreshed.  Instead he felt weary, a tiredness that went to his core.

Two days later the small door on his door opened at an unusual time, and he was told to step forward and put his hands out.  Sherlock put his hands through the small window in the door, and he was immediately handcuffed.  He withdrew his hands, the small door closed, and the door to his cell opened.  Two guards waited for him, and they each took an arm and escorted him down the hallway to another room.  He shuffled between them, suddenly feeling like a very old man, and he was a little light-headed.

He was led to a small room with a communal shower, and his handcuffs were removed.  He hadn’t bathed in several days, and he was still wearing the same issue clothing from his arrival, and it stank slightly of urine but mostly of old sweat as did he.  A bin in the room read “dirty laundry,” and he could see a fresh change of the same clothes on a chair in the room.  Clean but industrial towels were folded neatly on top of the clothes as well as a small washcloth..  There was no razor, however, and so his several-day growth of facial hair would have to wait.  Perhaps they were afraid he would somehow remove the razor blades and harm himself.  Perhaps shaving was a privilege he had yet to earn,

He was not left alone, but he was not interfered with.  He removed his clothes and dropped them in the bin, then turned on the shower and got under the water.  Just the feeling of the hot water on his face was suddenly a precious gift of life.  He had previously taken bathing for granted, sometimes bathing twice a day, but now it was life giving.  The soap and shampoo dispensers were mounted to the wall between the shower units, and he quickly lathered himself, scrubbing off the old smells, relishing the scents of the cheap brands, but they smelled like an English country garden compared to the smells he had endured over the last several days.

After the shower he was brought to a little room smaller than his cell, and his handcuffs were again removed.  The room had a table in the middle with two chairs on one side and one on the other, and there was a large 2-way mirror on one side.  The single chair faced the mirror. Overhead in the corner, a CCTV would record anything that was said or happened. The guards left him and shut the door, and he was alone.

So, he reasoned, the interrogation was about to begin, and he wondered who would do it.  He knew a lot of people in MI5 and MI6 by association with Mycroft and by his former assignments, and he wondered if the interrogation would be handled by agents or by someone else.   The light was brighter than in his cell, and he squinted a bit until he adjusted which gave him a slight headache.  He hoped there would be no physical interaction.  He knew Moriarty had been slapped a bit.  This was not, however, the Metro Police, and different rules, although that was a loose term, applied here.  He had already concluded that he was not handed to the Metro Police because of Mycroft, but he couldn’t entirely discern why.  Was it because the case involved purloined government property?  Was it because Mycroft had been careless with government property?  Was it because somehow the government was at least partially grateful that someone as odious as Magnussen had been got out of the way?  Surely Magnussen could have brought down most members of Parliament, the royal family, and countless businesses.  No one had said anything to him on the matter, nor had he seen the news or a newspaper since his incarceration.  He reasoned that he was being deliberately kept in the dark about world events…and news stories of Magnussen’s death.

He didn’t have a watch or any concept of time, but he knew he waited at least 45 minutes in the room.  That, he felt, was because they wanted him to sweat a bit before it all began. When the door handle clicked, he felt his heartbeat immediately quicken.

Mycroft entered the room with a file folder in one hand, and he quietly shut the door behind him.  He had seen some of the surveillance of Sherlock’s cell, but to see Sherlock in person was startling,  Sherlock was nearly gaunt, and his eyes were dull.  “Sorry to keep you waiting.  Urgent phone call at the last minute.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock said simply and with great relief.  He noted Mycroft’s cologne and the crisp smell of his freshly laundered suit.  Nice smells had become very important.  Any animosity he had dreamed up in his solitary confinement fled at seeing his older brother, but it was short-lived. “You put me in Moriarty’s old cell.” Sherlock said darkly.

“I had nothing to do with that.” Mycroft insisted.  “Once you were in custody, I had to take my hands completely off the situation.  I’m sorry.  I can ask them to move you, but I really shouldn’t interfere.”

“And yet here you are.”

“I chose to be the messenger.” He said as he laid the folder on the table.  “Sit down, Sherlock.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Sherlock sat across the table from Mycroft.  He folded his hands in his lap in case he was trembling, because his heart was beating like a roaring engine.  He blinked a few times and grimaced.  “Well, let’s have it.  Am I going to Pentonville or Strangeways?  Or am I to simply rot here?  I’m still a British citizen.  I have certain rights to judicial process of law.”

“Oh so now you _are_ the commonwealth, because I distinctly remember a conversation from Buckingham Palace where you said you weren’t.”

Sherlock stared at his brother.  He disliked having his own words flung back at him. “Did you know that Magnussen had a mind palace?”

“Oh stop it!” Mycroft hissed, and he leaned slightly forward and said under his breath, “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Have you been saving up all week to say that?” Sherlock asked

“I swear if you get glib with me, I will make Serbia seem like a church day camp.”  Mycroft nearly spat. 

Sherlock knew the threat was real enough, and he was in no position to risk it. “Sorry.” He said more contritely. “Do continue.”

Mycroft glared at his younger brother for a moment, “No, you continue.  What the hell were you thinking?”

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure where to begin, but he did know this wasn’t a formal interrogation.  This was simply between two bothers, one of whom happened to be a member of the Cabinet. Nevertheless, Sherlock told him everything while occasionally throwing in an apology, including for drugging Mycroft and stealing his laptop.  He had simply meant to frame Magnussen with stolen government property, but in the end, that fateful end, Magnussen didn’t actually have a trade because his information on Mary was all in his mind palace.  Sherlock had wanted to protect John and Mary, but the shooting had been impulsive, maybe even reckless.

Mycroft didn’t interrupt him unless some tiny point needed further clarification, but he had already put all the pieces together.  Except the mind palace information.  That was new.  But it didn’t change the facts.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.  Again.”

Mycroft drummed his fingers absently on the file marked _TOP SECRET_.  Sherlock’s eyes darted to the file, then back to his brother.

“You’ve created a very awkward situation, one for which there is no easy remedy, Sherlock.  On the one hand we could put you through a very public trial and see you sent for a lengthy prison sentence, likely the maximum allowed by law.  I daresay you fully deserve it.” Mycroft said.

“I did the job you wouldn’t do.” Sherlock said.

“You are not the law, and you are not above the law!” Mycroft brought his fist down on the table in uncharacteristic show of emotion.  He glared hard at Sherlock with a steely cold stare that he rarely used but was quite effective.  Nevertheless, even Mycroft seemed surprised by his own outburst and took a moment to compose himself before adding more diplomatically, “You are not above the law, and your actions must have consequences.  For you and for John.”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears. It was the first he had heard of John since his solitary confinement began.  “It wasn’t his doing.  Leave John out of it.  I take full responsibility.  Please, Mycroft.  Please.”  Again he felt like the little boy looking up to his older brother for a solution, for help because life had spun out of his control.

Mycroft was not as cold and aloof as he often appeared, and even in the dire circumstances, he maintained a small soft spot for his younger brother.  “John Watson has not yet been charged with a crime.”

“He’s safe?  Is he free?”

“For now.  We can’t implicate one of you without the other. I’m certain I speak for the British government when I say we would like to be spared the embarrassment of public disclosure of the events, but we can’t keep quiet forever on this matter.” Mycroft said and he slid the file across the desk to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the file and quickly scanned the official document inside.  He drew in a slow, measured breath.  “This is the assignment for MI6 that you asked me to decline on Christmas Day.”

“I advise you to consider your options carefully, brother.  If you refuse the assignment, we will have no choice but to turn you and John over to the authorities, and you will both be sent to prison.”

“If I take the assignment does John stay free?” Sherlock said.

“John stays free.” Mycroft said, and then he added somewhat softer, “Lady Smallwood was actually sympathetic to your cause.  Her words on the solution were ‘hardly merciful,’ I believe.”

Sherlock realized at that moment that he still had a chance to keep the vow he had made, a vow which he thought had been irretrievably shattered.  It gave him the first bit of hope he’d had since his incarceration started.  “I don’t really have a choice then, do I?  Give me your pen.  I’ll sign it.”  He held out his hand for the pen.  Mycroft hesitated a moment, then reached inside his suit and withdrew a Mont Blanc fountain pen, and he set it down in Sherlock’s hand.

“You understand what you are signing.”

“I’m signing my life away, but if it keeps John and Mary safe, so be it.” Sherlock said as he scrawled his name in two places.  He wasn’t sure of the date, but as soon as Mycroft told him, he put the date down.  He returned the pen to Mycroft, closed the file and slid it across the desk.

The brothers stared at each other.  Although Mycroft was stern about the matter, it was also clearly very painful to him.  He became much more somber. “I’ve taken the liberty of requisitioning the CDs of the language you’ll need to learn.  I trust it won’t take you more than 24 hours.  You will also be briefed on the details of your mission."

“Any details you can share now?”

“Only that are the distraction to take the enemy’s eyes off our other agents working in the area.  Once you go in, there is no coming out.  You will be hunted until they find you.  They will likely torture you thoroughly for information before killing you.  The British government cannot and will not help you or acknowledge you.  You will be rogue. No wading in this time.” Mycroft said firmly and then added softly.  “I’m sorry.”

“And if I do manage to escape?”

“In the highly unlikely event that you do survive, you will be considered a fugitive from justice.  You can’t ever return to Britain, Sherlock.  One way or another, your exile is permanent.”

“So the British government still practices its own version of capital punishment because the assignment is a death sentence.” Sherlock said. 

“Do you think this is one of your games?” Mycroft said incredulously.  “Listen to me carefully.  MI6 will leak information on your whereabouts to the enemy.  You cannot escape.  You might think you’re clever enough to outwit them, but not this time.  Once you are in the drop zone, you will have maybe twenty-four hours to get your bearings before you must run like a mouse out in the open.  You won’t last more than a few months, but do try to stay alive as long as possible so that our agents can do their jobs more efficiently.  They’re depending on you to be a proper distraction.”

“I assume that I am to be micro-chipped then so that you can feed my location to said enemy.”

“Yes.” Mycroft affirmed simply.

“And how soon do I leave?”

“Within 48 hours.  We’re making the arrangements.”

“Will I get to say any goodbyes?

“No promises.  Sorry.”

“I see.” Sherlock said softly.  “Well I’m obviously not leaving in these clothes.  There’s a Chinese laundry across the street from the flat.  Mrs. Hudson takes my things there.  I have a coat, a couple suits and several changes of clothes waiting to be picked up,  If you could be so kind as to fetch them for me.  I’d like to have something fresh to wear.  And some sensible shoes.  It is winter after all, and I’m heading to Eastern Europe.  And my scarf and gloves.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement.  The two stared at each other in painful silence for a moment, but then Mycroft took the file and stood up.  Sherlock stood up also and looked as if he wanted to say something personal, but Mycroft held up his hand.  “Don’t sully this moment with sentiment.”  He started towards the door and without looking back said quietly, “You did the right thing.” 

Mycroft left the room as quietly as he had entered, and Sherlock sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his unruly curls.  Of all solutions possible, he had not predicted that one, and he had yet to wrap his mind completely around the choice he had made.  Even so, he felt he had no real choice, but he did not regret signing the contract even though he knew he had just signed his own death certificate.

When Sherlock returned to his cell, he found that it had been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected.  The sheets were changed, and he had been given a small table, a CD player, a language CD package,  several books on the politics and history of where he would be going, and even a few of his favorite chocolate bar.  He hadn’t been handcuffed on the return to his cell, and his cell door remained open.  He could come and go to the small lounge or to the shower at will, but he was still a prisoner below MI5, and there were doors he could not open.

From that moment, events progressed quickly. Within two hours he was led back to Bilson’s office to be micro-chipped.

“Mark of the beast.” Sherlock quipped.  “Where will you put it?  Forehead or hand?”

“Neither.” Bilson said.  “Please remove your shirt.”

Sherlock peeled off his shirt but when it became apparent that the chip would be placed in his back, he had a moment of panic, and it took two guards to hold him down for the procedure. 

“I was specifically told to put it in a place where you could not personally remove it.  Not quite my standard.” Bilson said afterwards.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock muttered, but he knew Mycroft’s assumption had been right.  He would have indeed cut it out himself the first chance he got.  Now he had to figure out how to get it removed from his back.  He was determined to fulfill his contract to his own death, but he refused to be hunted like a fox by hounds.


	7. Chapter 7

It took Sherlock about six hours to learn the new language although actually it was a bit of a relearn since he’d had to know it during his two years undercover in Eastern Europe while dismantling Moriarty’s network.  Once back on British soil, however, he had filed it away in his mind palace.  It wasn’t enough to simply open the old files in his mind.  He had to hear it, practice it and converse in it, even it was all just talking to himself.

As promised, Mycroft did retrieve his clothes from the cleaners, and the coat and suit jackets arrived in their plastic coverings while the trousers and other things were in a box.  Mycroft did not bring them personally but had them sent down to Sherlock’s cell.  Sherlock immediately changed out of his prison clothes and into his own, and for the first time since Christmas Day, he felt a bit more like himself.

Then there was the matter of the coat.  He had a few Belstaffs, and he rotated them in and out of the cleaners whether they needed cleaning or not for the simple reason that the cleaners were also one of his drug dealers, and when his coats were retrieved, they had small quantities of various drugs hidden in compartments within the coat.  It was the place where Mrs. Hudson also procured her “herbal soothers.”  Bill Wiggins wasn’t his drug dealer per se.  Bill’s expertise was more in the creation of and dosing, and he was often around drug dens to make sure no one over-dosed.  The coat, however, remained in the plastic.  He knew he was still being watched 24/7 and could not afford to give himself away, not with John and Mary’s safety on the line.  He could manage to stay clean until he was out from under prying eyes, and he counted down those minutes.  Each time he picked up a coat from the cleaners, there were enough drugs to fatally overdose if he chose to, but he always tempered his use, always refusing to call himself an addict. 

He was escorted out of the MI5 bowels less than 48 hours later and down to the car park beneath MI5 where Mycroft was waiting for him next to a black government car.  Sherlock was carrying a six-pack of sports drinks, and he pulled out one and put the rest in the boot.  “Still a bit dehydrated.” He told Mycroft, but as he went around to his side of the car, he managed to surreptitiously down his first drug, which he washed down with a quick swig of the blue sports drink.    

“I don’t suppose we could do a once around London for old time’s sake?” Sherlock asked as the car began to drive away.

“No, I don’t suppose we could.”  Mycroft said.   He pulled his briefcase onto his lap and opened it.  He removed a passport and handed it to Sherlock, and Sherlock immediately opened it.

“I’m a bit disappointed.  No new identity.  Just me.” He said.

“Well, your name bears world recognition, even in the most spurious circles.” Mycroft said.  “Easier target.”

“That’s a comfort.” Sherlock said wryly, and he took another swig and then wiped his lips with the back of his gloved hand.

There was much unsaid between the brothers, and yet Mycroft only knew to stick to business and Sherlock was terrible at chit-chat, as was Mycroft.  Neither had the patience for it.  Yet, there remained unsaid things, and they rode in silence for a few minutes.

Sherlock didn’t look at Mycroft but watched the traffic go by, and when he did finally speak, it was with a somber acquiescence towards his fate.  “I would appreciate it if you could spare Mum and Dad all the details.  Just let them think I died on a mission.” He wrung his hands for a moment but stopped himself.  Even so, his heart rate was beginning to accelerate with every mile, and he couldn’t stop that.  Anxiety filled every cell of his being like a rampant virus.

“No need to burden them with truth.” Mycroft said quietly.

“And if possible, have my body retrieved and give me a decent burial someplace. Can you at least do that for me?”

“I can’t promise that.” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded grimly in acknowledgement, and the two brothers rode in somber silence for a few miles.  Sherlock reached for his bottle of water and surreptitiously downed another pill.  He had enough drugs hidden in his coat to fatally overdose if he chose, and that thought danced around the edges of his brain although he dismissed it as one would wave off a pesky midge. 

“If I had accepted the assignment on Christmas Day, would the circumstances of the assignment have been any different?” he finally asked.

“The assignment has always been a one-way journey.”  Mycroft said.

“But one way was a heroic self-sacrifice for Queen and country, but this way is just throwing a crippled animal to the lions because it has no further usefulness.”

“Need I remind you that this is of your own doing.” Mycroft said.  “At any rate, if you keep your wits about you, who knows?  That’s why MI6 wanted you in the first place.  If anyone could create the needed distractions, you were the cleverest one for the job.”

“One can always hope for a miracle.” Sherlock said, but Mycroft didn’t respond to that, and Sherlock remembered his brother’s uncharacteristically sentimental words spoken at Christmas, _Your loss would break my heart._   He wondered if Mycroft’s heart were breaking then or if he was too angry and disappointed to entertain such sentiment.  _All lives end.  All hearts are broken.  Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._   His own life would likely end within a few months, and Mycroft’s heart would be broken.  Caring indeed.  Somewhere behind his exterior, Mycroft did care deeply, Sherlock knew, but it was masked behind a taciturn British government official.

“Find someone.  Be happy.” Sherlock said. 

That took Mycroft by surprise, and he stuttered for a response.  “As I told you once before, I am not lonely.”

“But I won’t be around anymore, brother.  Time you found someone else as a distraction.  A little theater, dinners out, night caps… who knows where that will lead.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the thought and sighed tersely.  “Change the subject.”

“Right.  Last minute instructions.” Sherlock said.  “Don’t pack up all my things until you know for certain I am dead.  Keep up the illusion that I am still alive.  No need to announce it to the press.  It would be a bit like crying wolf.  _Look, he’s dead!  No, he’s alive!  No, he’s dead again!_   I’ll just quietly fade away.”  A dying man’s last words and instructions.  “As the executor of my will…”

“I’ll take care of everything, I promise.” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock well knew the old adage that there were no atheists in foxholes, and he couldn’t help himself hoping for a miracle, praying for a miracle.  _I don’t want to die._   The words were at the front of his brain but he couldn’t make them come off his tongue.  Even if he said them, he doubted he’d receive any sympathy from his brother.  He also didn’t want to appear compromised in his resolution to fulfill his contract, and he was afraid if he actually said the words he might start to cry, and he couldn’t allow that of himself.

“Is it in the news?”

“We’ve managed to keep it quiet so far,” Mycroft replied carefully.  “I’m still not sure how we plan to release the information, but a man of Magnussen’s international profile can only go dark for so long before people start asking questions.”

Sherlock flipped up his coat collar and coughed a little, but it was a fake cough, just enough distraction for him to take another pill and a few swallows of the blue.  He was beginning to feel some of the effects from earlier pills.  He fake coughed again just for good measure, and he also cleared his throat. 

“I’d offer you a cigarette but no smoking in government cars.” Mycroft said.

“That’s not really a rule.” Sherlock said.

“Isn’t it?  Well, it should be.” Mycroft said quietly.   “You know, you could have come to me about Mary.  Her true identity was not a secret to the Cabinet. She was one of our operatives.  She was the one who shot you, wasn’t she?”

“How long have you known?”

“I had my suspicions but the details coalesced after you shot Magnussen.  You would never have taken such action for Lord Smallwood’s love letters.”

“I want Mary kept out of the press.  I want her to be safe.”

“The thing about assuming a new identity, Sherlock, is that eventually the truth comes out regardless, and often with deadly consequences.” 

“I don’t believe in karma, if that’s what you’re referring to.” Sherlock said.  “At any rate, I forgave her, and it’s a private matter and water under the proverbial bridge.” He sighed and added thoughtfully, “She’s like a sister I never had.”

“But you did have Redbeard.”

Sherlock flinched a little at the comment.  “He was a good dog.”

Mycroft did not respond to the comment, and again they fell into uncomfortable silence where so many personal things needed to be said but neither could say them.  Finally Mycroft said, “Just so you know, we were building a case against Magnussen and would have got him eventually.  That’s why I told you he was none of your concern.  I didn’t want you to cause interference.”

“Perhaps Lady Smallwood felt differently.”

“And what did it get her?  Her husband committed suicide over Magnussen’s blackmail, so coming to you didn’t help her at all.  It just made things more complicated.  I wish she had come to me or any other member of the cabinet instead, but she apparently thought you were the best person for the job.”

“Apparently she was wrong,” Sherlock admitted in a rare moment of humility.  “Seems I only swatted the hornet’s nest.  Do send her my condolences, if she’ll have them.”

“Oh she doesn’t blame you regarding her husband.  I suspect she wishes you had killed Magnussen much sooner, however, but of course she’ll never admit it.”

“No, of course not.”

Thirty minutes later the car pulled onto the tarmac of a small government airstrip where a small jet was waiting to take Sherlock out of the country.  Sherlock’s eyes suddenly brightened at a familiar site.  “That’s John and Mary’s car.”

“Do keep it brief.  Captain and crew are on taxpayers’ pockets.” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock wasn’t certain if he was experiencing deep sadness or joy that he would be seeing John for the last time.  He desperately wanted a hit of morphine to mask the pain he felt.  As it was, he was starting to feel the high from the drugs he’d managed to take, and he knew he had to do his best to not give that away.  He’d also make a list of the drugs once he got on the plane in case he fatally over-dosed.  He didn’t know, however, if dying in such a way would invalidate John’s freedom although he suspected it wouldn’t change the outcome.

The car pulled to a stop.  Time also seemed to stop, but after getting out of the car, he and Mycroft immediately walked towards John and Mary.  Mary came up first and hugged him.  He assumed she knew the sacrifice he had chosen to keep her and John safe, but neither mentioned it.

And then there was John.  Kindred spirit John.  There would be no more adventures together, and just as with Mycroft, there were words neither could say as they fell into small talk.  Then an awkward handshake as if they had simply done some business transactions together and were parting ways.  John seemed to understand why Sherlock was leaving but still believed that somehow Sherlock would beat the odds.  Even Sherlock believed that somehow he would find a way, and he knew that if he did find a way, the first person he would contact would be John to let him know that he was alive, and he believed that someday he and John would see each other again.

Miracles.  He didn’t quite believe in them, nor in answered prayer. 

But he was about to.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No need to go further in this time-gap filler as the rest is explained at the end of HLV and in the airplane scenes in TAB. Thank you for reading!


End file.
